After the Fall

When I was a child
I had a milkweed pod
on the homemade altar
of my dresser.
Before the picture of
Rouaults’ Good Shepherd
whose eyes were as darkly
young as the lamb’s,
the pod opened
silk seeds drifted
like the slow swing of spiders
on threads so thin
Summer air had been heavier.
Seeds climbed my curtains,
clouded my clothes,
spun for the lambman and me
nets for the Fall,
for after, for now.